


Inconceivable!

by gardnerhill



Category: Princess Bride (1987), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-10
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Excerpt from the "Good Parts" Version of <i>The Prince Is Tried.</i></p><p><b>Warning: </b>Crack-a-doodle-doo.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Inconceivable!

**Author's Note:**

> For JWP 2013 Prompt #9: **WWWWD?** : Make up an acronym and use it in your story.

_[ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE sits at the bedside of his enthralled son Adrian. He thumbs through a book, coughing.]_

_~ Let’s see, where was I… ah, here we are._

_~ When we last left our story, Prince Watson had just been rescued from his kidnapper Venucci by the Dread Peeler Robert – the Man in Tweed who had bested Venucci’s singlestick expert on Thor Bridge, overcome Venucci’s giant wrestler at Abbey Grange, and had finally bested Venucci himself in a contest of poisoned pills at Lauriston - and revealed himself at last to be not in actuality the Dread Peeler Robert but Prince Watson's true love, Holmes the Squire-boy, whom he had believed died at Reichenbach Falls._

_~ Pursued by Prince Moriarty and Count Moran, Squire-boy Holmes and Prince Watson flee into the deadly Baskerville Swamp –  ~_

_\- There, Dad, you left it there! -_

_~ So I did. All right. ‘They fled into the deadly Baskerville Swamp…’ ~_

***

“So you waited a whole week out of respect for the dead before getting betrothed to Moriarty!” Holmes snapped, shoving branches and moss out of his path. “Well, there is the worth of the promise of a man.”

“You mock my pain!” Watson snapped back, wading through undergrowth. “I died that day standing over that cataract! I swore I would never love again. When Moriarty said our wedding would unite the kingdoms of Britannia and Academia, I agreed. I would never be happy again, but at least I could still do my patriotic duty!”

Both men spent the next angry fifteen minutes negotiating the greenery all around them – most of a dark grey-green and sinister shape, with odd smells. Holmes started at the smooth rock that moved at his feet – which turned out to be only a tortoise, its shell marked at the top with a red cross-shaped spot. Eerie sounds drifted through the twisted trees, like the cries of vicious dogs – interspersed with popping, hissing sounds like a boiled-out teakettle.

“What is our plan?” Prince Watson finally said, his voice neutral.

“Simplicity itself,” Holmes said, in the same level tone. “We make our way through Baskerville Swamp, and on the other side there will be a hansom cab waiting. We head back to Britannia as quickly as we can, and a Prince bridegroom finds out if he can love a mere squire’s son turned consulting detective.”

“That Prince has …few qualms about that eventuality.” Watson pushed a vine out of his face which turned out to be a swamp adder, and he flung the hissing speckled band away with an oath before looking around at the dark dank growth. “The only trouble is that we may never get out.”

“Oh, you’re only saying that because no one ever has,” Holmes said jovially. “Now, according to the stories, there are only three terrors to overcome in Baskerville Swamp. I mean, besides the usual –”

Pop. Pop. Hiss. FOOM! A plume of fire shot up nearly at Watson’s feet. He yelped and leaped back, his splendid prince’s garb aflame all up his front. Stop Drop and Roll!

By the time he clambered to his feet, spitting sand out of his singed moustache and gingerly feeling his eyebrows, Holmes was bent over examining the source of the fire. “Wonderful, Watson! Thanks to your help, we’ve learned that the Hound-Fires flare up right when you hear that popping, hissing sound. That’s one difficulty overcome.” He straightened and kept walking.

“Hurray,” Watson groaned, limping after the oblivious observer. At least, thank God, the undergrowth was thinning out and they walked in sandy damp ground. “Ah, that’s easier to walk through.”

Holmes looked down as he waded through the wet sand. “Deceptively easier. I think this just might be –“

With a sickeningly wet sound – like a gulp – Holmes disappeared into the sucking wet ground.

At Reichenbach Watson had learned the futility of just standing and screaming in horror at the site of a disappeared loved one, so he skipped the panic and went straight into action mode now. Remembering the overgrowth, he whipped around and seized the nearest vine, tugged it once to test its strength, and simply dove head-first into the place where Holmes had been swallowed.

Pop. Pop. Hiss. FOOM! Beady eyes glittered at the edge of the deadly clearing.

The vine went taut. Out came Watson’s hand, gripping it for dear lives, then the other, pulling. Out came Watson’s head, gasping for air, and Holmes’ almost at the same time, the one clinging to the other’s back. Watson did not stop pulling until both of them were out and away from the death-pit.

Holmes coughed, spat out half a lungful of wet sand and muck. “…the Great. Grimpen. Mire,” he gasped, finishing his thought.

“Yes,” Watson gasped back. “How clever of you … to find it for us.”

When both were once again fully oxygenated and able to stand on their feet, they helped each other up. “We’ll never get out,” Watson groaned.

“On the contrary, my dear man, we’re practically home by now,” Holmes insisted, trying to brush some of the Mire slime off Watson’s scorched clothes. “What are the three terrors of Baskerville Swamp? The Hound-Fires – we know to listen for them. The Grimpen Mire, and we’ll know to avoid bare ground from now on. You see?”

Watson regarded him steadily. "Holmes, what about the P.O.U.S.es?"

“The Policemen Of Unusual Stupidity?” Holmes smiled at the Prince. “I don't believe they exist -"

"Guilty!" shouted Inspector Gregson, flinging himself upon Holmes and toppling both to the ground. “You are under arrest!”

***

_\- Dad, that’s ridiculous! –_

_~ Shut up, boy. Who’s telling this story? ~_

_***_

The P.O.U.S., his beady little police eyes glittering in the light from the Swamp, thrashed on top of Holmes, his handcuffs flashing around Holmes’ head and shoulders. Exhausted from the Mire adventure, Holmes only held his own against the vicious bobby, crying out in pain as the steel cuffs gashed his shoulder.

Watson was able to yank the inspector’s nightstick away from him, but he too was spent from both the fire and from rescuing Holmes and could only feebly poke at the enraged officer with the stick.

_Think, Watson, think! He’s police. Police!_

Pop. Pop. Hiss. FOOM!

That fire was too far away to be of use – but that sound, that sound –

Watson put two fingers to his mouth and blew the most high-pitched unwavering whistle he could.

The Inspector stopped fighting, went still, and his head came up in the direction of the noise. “Tea’s ready!” he said happily, and that’s when Holmes pitched him off and into the Mire. The P.O.U.S. disappeared into the muck with a single high-pitched squeak, and then silence.

Watson helped Holmes to his feet and tended the gash while Holmes stared down at the muck. “God, what a stupid policeman,” he said. “The sooner we’re back in Britannia and doing detective work, the better.”

“Agreed,” Watson said. “Let’s get out of here so I can bandage this properly. There’s a light up ahead!”

Indeed there was – and not the feeble, sinister glows of the Swamp but the warm friendly yellow of gaslight and civilisation, shining through the last trees before them.

They staggered and limped into the clearing. But their relieved smiles disappeared when they saw the lantern-light held by henchmen standing in a semi-circle around two figures in the dead center.

“Why hello, my dear,” said Prince Moriarty, smiling at Watson. Count Moran only tightened his grip on his infamous air-gun and glared at Holmes.

“Albert’s… _balls_ ,” said the Prince Bridegroom.

***

_~ And that’s the end of the chapter. Good night, son. ~_


End file.
